Pretty Lies, page 2
He was way too drunk to be picking up a brunette in his club to fuck, if he were being honest. The way the room looked as he walked away—a little too fuzzy, maybe—told him that.
What did it matter?
Fun was still fun.
“The rule, Cory!”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waved a hand high over his shoulder, and his fingers made the peace sign that quickly turned into just his middle finger standing up. “I know the rule—don’t be stupid.”
Sometimes, that was when he had the most fun.
He just knew better than to say it.
•••
The brunette had a name.
Cory just couldn’t remember it.
He blamed his lack of memory on the fact that the second he got close enough to actually catch her attention, the girl was like a fucking spider web. Beautiful face. Intoxicating laugh. Sex appeal in every move she made. He got a dance from her. Made her laugh and smile and it all pulled him in closer to her. More shots were involved.
Then, she kissed him.
The second he realized those stained-red lips of hers tasted like sugar and Henny … Cory was done for. At some point between her round, pert ass grinding into his cock through his slacks on the dance floor and a kiss that had his lungs aching for more in the darkened hallway leading to the employee’s private bathrooms, she’d told him her name.
Now, after he’d gotten her somewhere relatively private, had her sitting on a counter with her tight dress bunched around her hips while he buried his face between her thighs, he was trying to remember what it was.
Her name, that was.
Mel?
Lana?
Fucking hell.
Cory hadn’t needed those extra shots.
Not that it mattered at the moment—his drunkenness made no difference to the fact that the brunette’s legs shook as they tightened to his head while her demands came out high and broken and perfect.
“Don’t fucking stop … don’t stop,” she breathed.
She rocked against him, needy. He loved them like that. So messy.
It was the only time he let himself love a woman, really. He often fell in and out of lust more than he cared to admit, but sex wasn’t quite the same. Nothing got him off more than making a chick lose her control while he ate her out like it was the last thing he was ever going to taste.
On his tongue, she was hotter and tart as all her sounds echoed in the empty bathroom. Her manicured nails pulled tighter in his hair when he stuffed two fingers into her pussy. Those strappy stiletto heels of hers scratched against the fabric of his silk button down.
And then she was shaking.
Begging.
“There, there … there, fuck, yes.”
Her pussy, a slick paradise.
Cory had most certainly found heaven.
At least for the night.
All at once, as he looked up and a wild gaze—the color of his favorite dark chocolate—met his sky-blue stare. He couldn’t really smudge the stain on her lips like he’d wanted, but he’d kissed her hard enough in the hallway outside the bathroom that she looked like he’d fucked her before he even got the chance to actually do so. Every breath she dragged in had her tits rising and falling heavily.
He grinned.
She licked her lips.
“I forgot your name,” he admitted.
She shrugged her shoulders, the straps of her dress tangled down her arms, but she didn’t seem to care at all. “I didn’t even bother to ask for yours.”
Fair enough.
A buzz echoed to their left.
She didn’t look away from him, but his gaze darted to the side where her purse laid in a heap on the corner of the counter. Her phone had done that a lot since they left the club’s dance floor. She ignored every call or text—acted like it didn’t even exist.
“Someone looking for you?” he asked.
The lines of her face changed to something more sensual when she laughed. Beautiful wasn’t a good enough word to describe how feminine her features were. From soft, plush lips to cheekbones that would undoubtedly look best in the glossy spread of a magazine, she really was something. The fact he had the taste of her pussy on his mouth currently made his opinion of her a lot greater, too.
“He can keep looking,” she said.
Oh.
Well, shit. Who was he to step in this woman’s way of getting back at—or maybe moving on from—some other man in her life? Hell, he might as well help however he could.
Wasn’t that the gentlemanly thing to do?
“That’s what this is?” Cory asked, tipping his chin up when he let out a dark chuckle that had her shivering under his hands that flexed at her inner thighs. “You’re out looking for a rebound, pretty girl?”
“Just a fuck, actually,” she countered. “Make it worth about a year of my wasted time, would you?”
That time, it was Cory’s turn to laugh when he straightened to his full height to tower over where she sat trembling on the counter. The bathroom smelled like liquor and sex. Like a damn good night. One well spent.
Her legs widened when he grabbed her waist.
“Well?” she asked.
He liked that there was still a hint of a woman who could probably grab him by the balls and make it hurt if she really wanted to when she stared at him. At the same time, she was all sweetness and sex and sin under his grip.
Her breath hitched when he yanked her down to her feet. Those heels on her feet clicked against the floor. His lip curved upward to flash his teeth when he smirked, a wink only adding to the arrogance of his next words.
“Oh yeah, I can definitely do that.”
He still couldn’t remember her name, but it proved insignificant when he bent her over the counter and fucked her. He was sure she would have a line of bruises on her thighs from the edge of the counter and how hard he grabbed and pulled at her body.
Yet, she took all nine inches of him, and then asked for more. Purred when he pulled her hair and came harder when he wrapped his fingers around her throat.
So, shit.
He hadn’t remembered her name.
No big deal.
Besides, he’d learned not to sweat the small things.
How important was a name, really?
TWO
THE CLICK OF Della’s red, six-inch Giuseppe heels took her up the marble stairs to the entrance of a building in downtown Chicago. The towering skyrise housed hundreds of offices by companies that rented space for their own purposes. When the sun came around to the front of the building later in the day, the glass had a shimmer of gold.
It certainly made for an interesting sight.
She might have cared slightly more about the building and the companies using the place had she been there for any reason other than work. Despite the way she looked in designer shoes, black, high-waisted, skinny-legged pants she’d paired with a cream-colored silk blouse tucked into the waist, and a Hermès bag hooked around her inner elbow, she wasn’t there to sit in any boardrooms or even behind a desk of her own.
Della still liked to look the part.
It helped in her career to … blend in.
Just beyond the entrance of tower’s front doors waited security. Tightening her arm around the ten-thousand-dollar bag to keep it close, Della chose the guard on the end with a familiar face. It wasn’t the first time she’d come to this building to do her business, and she seriously doubted it would be her last.
Something else that was good in her field?
Knowing people.
Or making sure people knew her.
Either worked.
That was why when the security guard turned to greet the next person going through his line, his smile deepened a bit at the sight of Della stepping up to bat. So to speak.
“Miss Costello,” he greeted.
“Jethro.” Della glanced down at her shoes, knowing the custom was to take them off if the guard asked. Safety, and all that. Crime in Chicago was higher than ever, and one couldn’t be too careful. Problem was … well, she was also part of that crime. “You’re not going to make me take these off, are you?”
“Probably not. Business today?”
“Unfortunately.”
It was always going to be an unfortunate workday for someone else when she was called in to have a chat with them.
“Shame,” he murmured. “Bag in the container. ID on the counter for me. Then, you may step through the scanner, please.”
“Right, thanks.”
She gave him another beaming smile and did as he asked. Stepping through the large scanner, Della kept her eye on the man while Jethro moved behind his desk to watch her bag go through the conveyor. Of course, the scanner blinked red. A couple of years ago, however, the building switched their systems so it no longer alerted the rest of the room to the fact someone was carrying metal into the building.
Like the gun and knife in Della’s bag.
Or the blade at her thigh.
Jethro eyed her over the edge of the screen, and then wagged a single finger to invite her to pick up the designer handbag from the container when it was spit out the other side. As was custom for the arrangement she made with this man the first time she’d needed access to bring a weapon into this building, when she pulled out her bag, she made sure to leave a small roll of cash in the container that would disappear before he replaced it with the others.
“Lot of money in that bag today, huh?” he noted.
Della smiled. “Is it? I’ve not really counted.”
Lie.
In the business of loansharking—her father’s main source of income as a Capo to the Chicago mob—and collections when a client defaulted on their payment, Della had to know every single penny she had on hand, where it came from, and that was that.
Whose money it was, on the other hand, couldn’t be questioned once she had been called in to retrieve it—the Costellos made sure of that.
“I hadn’t realized you were only twenty-three until today,” he noted, glancing down at her ID.
“And?”
Across the conveyor, the guard swallowed at her hard stare. Deciding to keep his mouth shut on any further comments, he simply said, “Enjoy your day, Miss Costello. I hope business treats you well.”
“You, too, Jethro.”
Her bag was back on her arm. The guard handed over her ID, and the world was right again. She could see the questions burning in his eyes. Especially the way his stare dropped to the identification card she now held. He was the same as every other acquaintance she’d made in her line of work—they always wanted to know the same damn things.
How did you find yourself here at only twenty-three?
It wasn’t a simple answer. It never was when it came to the mob; how exactly should she explain that the illegal business of loansharking was a family venture, anyway? Frankly, Della didn’t owe anybody shit.
“Anything else?” she asked, figuring she might as well put the man out of his misery.
Besides, a line was starting to form behind her of others wanting to get through the guard’s scanners. And now she was running late, too.
That wasn’t Della’s style.
“Not a thing,” Jethro murmured, picking up the container in such a way that he kept the cash inside hidden from any camera’s view. He glanced at the line of people, shouting, “Next!”
Della headed for the bank of elevators on the other side of the entrance.
Time to get to work.
When the elevator climbed the sixty flights to the floor that a CEO—Jared Tramen—had rented for the sole purpose of running his investment company from, Della switched back and forth from texting on her phone to talking into the small microphone that hung down from her one earbud. The two entirely separate conversations needed to end, and soon.
“Work done for the day?” her father asked in her ear.
“Almost. Just the Tramen debt.”
“You’re waiting for J, right?”
Her older brother—by only a year—he meant. If only her father knew how many collections she did on her own without her brother as a backup. Today didn’t seem like the right moment to tell him the truth, really.
“Adella Ivy,” her father said in her ear.
Della had a good mind to roll her eyes and tell him to chill out, but her raising kept her from doing so. It didn’t matter how old she was or that Frankie couldn’t actually see her be rude. Her father wouldn’t stand for any of it. Frankie came from a different generation where respect had been the word of the day every fucking day. He demanded the same from his children—it didn’t matter if they were collecting his loansharking debts or going to an Ivy League college.
“Of course, I’m waiting for him,” she lied smoothly.
A little white lie wouldn’t hurt. Within the hour, she’d have the money, everything would be fine—as it always was when she did her job—and her father wouldn’t know one way or another whether she waited for her older brother to get it done.
Who cared if it was done?
Right?
Besides, even J knew she could do this alone which was why he never said a thing when she did it. If her dad could figure that out, too, everything would be easy.
“Right, well, I’ll let you get back to it, then. Be smart, hmm? Love you.”
Della smiled. “Always am. Love you, too.”
The elevator doors opened to expose a modernly decorated small reception with the name Tramen spelled out in golden script behind the woman sitting at a desk. With a Bluetooth in her ear, and her fingers flying across the keys, she didn’t seem to notice Della stepping off the elevator. Since there was no one else in the reception area, she took a moment to end the other conversation she had going on in her text messages.
The last message from her friend popped up on the screen. The one she hadn’t been able to reply to because her father called.
Jennika had simply written are you still sad about your fuckhead ex?
Fuckhead ex was a good way to describe Luis.
Small time gang leader with a superiority complex. Bad boy with worse intentions. Emotionally unavailable, incapable of being loyal to one woman which she learned way too late for her own good, and a problem in every other aspect of Della’s life because despite how much she wanted him to be the right guy, he wasn’t.
Hell, even her father hadn’t known about him.
Not that he would have approved.
It took about a year for her to figure out Luis wasn’t worth shit—but most men weren’t, to be honest. Problem was, Della seemed to have a type with guys, and it wasn’t the type of man she could bring home or count on to actually come home.
Usually tattooed. Ripped denim was a plus, leather a must. Combat boots were the cherry on top of a bad attitude with a give-no-fucks demeanor. Add on a pretty face to that mess, and she would eat right out of a man’s hand. Apparently, her brain had not yet gotten through to her heart and vagina that things which looked like trouble almost always brought her trouble.
Perfect, right?
Yeah.
Luis was her latest mistake.
She wouldn’t be making another any time soon because as far as she was concerned, it wasn’t worth the effort. She was not chasing after another problem like that one. If only her ex would also get the goddamn memo, that would be great. So far, no luck.
Right now, Della had other things to focus on.
Instead of replying to her friend about the ex, she typed out, I’m down the hallway. Incoming in less than five.
That would give her friend—and partner in this business—just enough time to ready herself for Della’s arrival, and if needed, make herself decent. Because where Della was the one who would go in and collect the debt when needed, Jennika was often the person they used to get her through the front door in many cases.
Sometimes, her friend ran her own side hustle with Frankie’s debtors when she knew she could get away with it. A little blackmail or bribery never hurt anyone, after all, and as long as it didn’t fuck with her business, she didn’t care what Jennika did.
Simple as that.
It was the click-click of Della’s heels on the tiled floor that had the woman behind the desk looking up from her work. She opened her painted-red lips to speak, likely to ask if she could help, but Della was quick to stop her before she could do or say anything at all.
“The escort Mr. Tramen has in his office is one of mine—I’m sure he told you to cancel his afternoon for him to spend it with her. He’ll be expecting me.”
Well, he wasn’t.
But he should have.
As if Della’s statement wasn’t at all unusual, and it probably wasn’t considering the CEO was in trouble with the mob’s major loan shark, the woman gave a nod and went back to her work. Like not a single thing was out of place in her day.
Huh.
It said a lot.
Pulling the switch blade and Glock from her bag, Della readjusted the purse on her arm to keep it out of the way as she headed down a familiar hall. As was custom whenever her father took on a new client for loans, she and her brother always made a special trip in to see the individual in order to make the terms of their new arrangement with Frankie Costello clear. She’d walked this hall before.
Knew it well.
At the far end, a wall of frosted glass greeted her. Beyond the closed glass doors, Della could see shadowy shapes moving near something large and dark. She couldn’t be sure if there were more people in the office than she was expecting. Given her conversation with Jennika and the plan they had in place, however, it should only be her friend and the CEO.
Della opened the door.
Her dark-haired friend in a dress better suited for a club, with makeup smoked out to the heavens to give her the sex appeal she loved so much, grinned over her shoulder from where she’d perched herself on the CEO’s desk. Behind them, a wall of windows faced the skyline. In the chair, a man in a ruffled suit popped his head up from between Jennika’s thighs.
A scowl on his face, Jared Tramen still had what was apparently his lunch smeared over his mouth as Della racked the gun while still holding onto the switch blade. The CEO didn’t get the chance to say shit when her friend’s heel met his forehead, and shoved him back into an office chair that was twice as wide in the high back as his own shoulders.
